The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗
She sank on to her knees before him and placed her head in his lap.
Thank you, she whispered. You are the kindest man I know. You have truly taken the place of my own father now.
The months that followed were the most contented that Centaine had ever known, secure and sunny and rewarding, filled with the sound of Shasa's laughter, and with the benign if diffident presence of Garry Courtney always in the background and the more substantial figure of Anna in the foreground.
Centaine rode every morning before breakfast and again in the cool of the evening, and often Garry accompanied her, regaling her with tales of Michael's childhood or relating the family history as they climbed the forested tracks along the escarpment or paused to water the horses at the pool below the falls of the river where the spray and white water fell a hundred feet over wet black rock.
The rest of the day was spent in choosing curtaining and wallpaper, and supervising the artisans who were redecorating the house, consulting with Anna on the restructuring of Theuniskraal's domestic arrangements, romping with Shasa and trying to prevent the Zulu servants from spoiling him utterly, taking instruction from Garry Courtney in the subtle art of steering and driving the big Fiat tourer, in pondering the printed invitations that arrived with every day's mail, and generally taking over the management and running of Theuniskraal as she had that of the chateau at Mort Homme.
Every afternoon she and Shasa took tea with Garry in the library where he had been ensconced for most of the day, and with his gold-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose he would read aloud to her his day's writings.
Oh, it must be wonderful to have such a gift! she exclaimed, and he lowered the sheaf of manuscript. You admire those of us that write2 he asked. You are a breed apart. Nonsense, my dear, we are very ordinary people except that we are vain enough to believe that other people might want to read what we have to say. I wish I could write. You can, your penmanship is excellent."I mean really Write."You can. Help yourself to paper and get on with it. If that's what you want. But, she stared at him aghast, what could I write about? Write about what happened to you out there in the desert. That would do very well for a beginning, I should say. it took three days for her to accustom herself to the idea, and brace herself to the effort. Then she had the servants move a table into the gazebo at the end of the lawns and sat down at it with a pencil in her hand, a pile of Garry's blank paper in front of her and terror in her heart. She experienced that same terror each day thereafter when she drew the first blank sheet of paper towards her, but it passed swiftly as the ranks of words began to march down across the emptiness.
She moved pleasant and familiar things into the gazebo to alleviate the loneliness of creative endeavour a pretty rug for the tiled floor, a Delft vase on the table-top which Anna filled with fresh flowers each day, and in front of her she placed O'wa's clasp knife. She used it to resharpen her pencils.
At her right hand she placed a velvet-lined jewelbox and in it she laid H'ani's necklace. Whenever she lacked inspiration, she threw down her pencil and took up the necklace. She rubbed the bright stones between her fingets like Greek worry beads and their smooth touch seemed to calm her and recharge her determination.
Every afternoon from the end of lunch until it was time to take tea with Garry in the library, she wrote at the table in the gazebo, and Shasa slept in the cot beside her or climbed over her feet.
it did not take many days for Centaine to realize that she could never show what she was putting on to the paper to another living soul. She found that she could hold nothing back, that she was writing with a brutal candour that admitted no reserve or equivocation.
Whether it was the details of her lovemaking with Michael, or the description of the taste of rotten fish in her mouth as she lay dying beside the Atlantic, she knew that nobody could read them without being shocked and horrified.
It's for myself alone, she decided. At the end of each session when she laid the handwritten sheets on the jewelbox on top of H'ani's necklace, she was suffused with a sense of satisfaction and worthwhile achievement.
There were, however, a few jarring notes in this symphony of contentment.
Sometimes in the night she would rise to the surface of consciousness and reach instinctively for the lithe golden body that should have been beside hers, longing for the feel of hard smooth muscle and the touch of long silky hair that smelled like the sweet grasses of the desert.
Then she would come fully awake and lie in the darkness hating herself for her treacherous longings and burning with shame that she had so debased the memory of Michael and O'wa and little H'ani.
On another morning Garry Courtney sent for her and, when she was seated, handed her a package.
This came with a covering note to me. It's from a lawyer in Paris. What does it say, Papa? My French is awful, I'm afraid, but the gist of the matter is that your father's estates at Mort Homme have been sold to defray his debts."Oh, poor Papa. They had presumed that you were dead, my dear, and the sale was ordered by a French court. I understand The lawyer read of your rescue in a Parisian paper, and has written to me explaining the situation. Unfortunately the Comte de Thiry's debts were considerable, and as you are too well aware, the chateau and its contents were destroyed in the fire. The lawyer has set out an accounting, and after all the debts were paid and the legal expenses including this fellow's not inconsiderable fees, were deducted, there is very little that remains to you. Centaine's healthy acquisitive instincts were aroused. How much, Papa? she asked sharply.
A little less than 2,000 sterling, I'm afraid. He will send a bank draft when we return the acknowledgement to him duly signed and attested. Fortunately I am a commissioner of oaths, so we can do the business privately. When the draft finally arrived, Centaine deposited the most part with the Ladyburg Bank at 3,- percent interest, indulging only her new passion for speed. She used 120 pounds to buy herself a T model Ford, resplendent in brass and glistening black paintwork, and when for the first time she tore up the driveway of Theuniskraal at thirty miles per hour, the entire household turned out to admire the machine. Even Garry Courtney hurried from the library, his gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up on top of his head, and it was the first time he ever chided her.
You must consult me, my dear, before you do these things, I will not have you squandering your own savings. I am your provider, and besides which- he looked lugubrious -I was looking forward to buying you a motor-car for your next birthday. You have gone and spoiled my plans Oh, Papa, do forgive me. You have given us so much already, and we love you for it. It was true. She had come to love this gentle person in many ways as she had loved her own father, but in some ways even more strongly, for her feelings towards him were bolstered by growing respect for and awareness of his unvaunted talents and his hidden qualities, his deep humanity and his fortitude in the face of a fate that had deprived him of a limb, a wife and a son, and had withheld from him until this late hour a loving family.
He treated her like- the mistress of his household, and this evening he was discussing the guest-list for the dinner-party they were planning.
I must warn you about this fellow Robinson. I gave myself pause before inviting him, I'll tell you! Her mind had been on these other things, however, not on the invitation list, and she started.
I am so sorry, Papa, she apologized, I did not hear what you were saying. I am afraid I was dreaming. Dear me, Garry smiled at her. I thought I was the only dreamer in the family. I was warning you about our guest of honour. Garry liked to entertain twice a month, not more often, and there were always ten dinner guests, never more.
